The Home Coming

“My dear Watson,’ said the well-remembered voice, ‘I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”

—Dr. John H. Watson, “The Adventure of the Empty House”

It is because he lives, and I hope to God will live forever, that I chronicle this account, and because he is my dear friend.

Last night’s affair of “The Empty House” resulted in Sherlock Holmes’ ingenious capture of the murderer of the Honourable Ronald Adair. For me it began with my collar undone and the taste of brandy on my lips. The mist before my eyes cleared, and I was filled with the incredible excitement of Holmes miraculous reappearance in my surgery. It was April first of the great year 1894 a year that would become one of the busiest of our association. Holmes somehow deduced that I was single again, and in his casual way invited me to return to our rooms in Baker Street.

I awoke in the morning and the plane tree greeted me covered in new spring buds outside the window of my old familiar bedroom. I took a breath, and his horrible first pipe filled my heart with gratitude. Today I wasn’t alone—Sherlock Holmes was back! Last night we poached an evildoer. Colonel Sebastian Moran, “the second most dangerous man in London.”

My interest in how our detective business would carry on after Holmes’ time away was significant. And I worried about him, three years of hardships and wonders could change a man. Would he still be the supreme analytical thinker I knew? Would I still be the partner he needed?

He was a little too lean for my taste, yet, muscled, toned, quicker and more lethal for any who would choose murder as a profession. His explorations, both actual and spiritual, expanded his already worldly attitude. His sojourn in New York brought him home to our consulting practice.

I carried my stored boxes down from the attics. They were piled high and I was juggling, unable to see over the top. It was good to be sharing rooms with Holmes again, so different from the first time. My life had changed me, too.

I opened the door and my eyes swept the room, looking for a place to put down the boxes. They alighted on my unmade bed and immediately tears dotted the boxes in my arms…Mary. Oh, that you would also return!

Countless times I have run down these stairs at Holmes’ command, his voice full of the thrill of the chase. It was my name he called. Glancing again at the bed, I thought, What did I forget? Could Mrs. Hudson be slipping?

A young girl rushed in from the hallway.

“Doctor Watson, I presume.” She put her hand out firmly. “I am Rachel Marcello. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

She spoke with an Eastern American accent.

“Thank you for all the wonderful stories about Mr. Holmes. You made it easy for me to find him.”

I dropped the boxes, their contents scattering to all corners. I shook her hand. “Excuse me, Miss Marcello is this your room?”

She answered me with the rapid-fire speech of intelligent youth, “My room is being prepared.” She pointed down the hall. “I was quite a surprise for Mrs. Hudson. But you know our practical landlady, she brought in her brother instantly; I can’t wait to see it. I’m so glad you are moving back in with us and I know Mr. Holmes is, too.” She wagged her finger at me. “Don’t ever leave him again, Doctor Watson, he needs you.” She made the bed, helped me pick up the escapees.

“You’re American, aren’t you? How is it you are so far from home? Where are your people?”

She laughed. “I’m from Poughkeepsie, New York. But now I’m from here.”

“Here? Are you the new maid?”

She chuckled. “I’m helping Mrs. Hudson by straightening up your room, Doctor Watson. They’re a couple of suits in the armoire and a hat brush. Are they yours? Mr. Holmes wrote a story of our adventure in New York, you ought to read it. It’s filled with letters to you. He missed you very much.” She patted the bed. “There you go. Let me know if I might help you with anything else.”

“So, Miss Rachel, I imagine your parents will be arriving shortly? I look forward to meeting them.”

Her eyes suddenly lit with surprise. It seemed to me that for a second a touch of horror had darkened that intelligent face. She ran out the door and down the stairs.

To say I was intrigued was to not say enough. I hung my ties next to the suits, moved the brush to the dresser and unpacked a photo of Mary. Then looking for an explanation from Holmes, I found Rachel in my chair and Holmes in his, both laughing aloud in our sitting room. This adjustment may be more difficult than I had first assumed.

“Watson, my good man, let me introduce you to Miss Rachel Marcello, once a client and now a very dear friend of mine.”

I nodded my head toward her. “Miss Rachel. We just met upstairs in my room, Holmes.”

“Yes, she’s been enlightening me.” And their laughter started up again.

No one likes to be laughed at, and it is my home! “This is a deuced mystery, Holmes. Who is Miss Rachel and why has she moved into No. 221B?”

Rachel stood and curtsied. “I’m his daughter!” She bounced to the settee.

“Miss Rachel, we are no longer aboard the Lucania. But, yes, Watson, meet my daughter.” They both laughed.

“Holmes, this is not clearing it up. Three years does not make a twelve-year-old child. As usual, you have me utterly baffled.” I collapsed into my chair.

Holmes sighed and said. “I’m sorry, Watson, please calm yourself. My final destination, after being repeatedly attacked and then severely wounded on the continent, turned out to be Miss Rachel’s hometown. While I healed, I also solved a conundrum for her family.”

“We solved it!” Rachel interjected.

“Yes, we did,” he said with a smile.

“We rescued my aunt from an asylum and that’s not all.”

Holmes stood and put his hand on my shoulder. “Watson, I kept this American journal as a gift to you. It may help at least with the background information. And please, if you like, write it up as one of your stories. There is certainly enough melodrama. We are both available to fill in the details if need be.” He handed it to me with a half bow. “After a shot was fired on deck, Miss Rachel prudently took refuge in my stateroom during my battle with an assassin. As he was arrested and imprisoned in a New York City Police stockade, she found herself sailing to London. Aboard ship, she posed as my daughter.”

“But Holmes, surely her family will want her back in the States?”

“Yes, I have this morning posted telegrams to announce we arrived safely and to discuss exactly that.” He yawned and stretched his arms behind his head. “Rachel, I gave Mr. Henry the go-ahead, the murderous Doctor Simon’s trial comes up next week. Watson, you may be contacted by the New York State Lunacy Commission or the Poughkeepsie Police Department for assurance that I still live.”

“Certainly telephone calls home would be more appropriate here, Holmes, this is kidnapping.”

He chuckled. “No, no, no, more like adult-napping. Ever my straight thinking Watson, her family was informed immediately by wire, as we left New York Harbour. Rachel’s uncle and aunt, left behind on the Clarkson Street Pier, I’m sure gave a rousing account of Rachel’s farewell waves and my shrugging acceptance.” They laughed again. “Child, I posted your letter. We should receive answers shortly.”

He struck a match and lit his pipe. “The Marcellos do not have a telephone. Yet it’s time we considered one for our detective practice.” He drew on the pipe and filled the air with wreaths of smoke. “At present, intercontinental telephone service is not a civilized undertaking. Watson, have you ever attempted to telephone New York? We might be able to reach the Murray Hill Hotel in the city, but certainly not the Marcello family in Poughkeepsie.

“I spent a rather frustrating hour attempting to comprehend my lawyer, Morris Henry. And was forced to send him a cable to verify what was said over the telephone apparatus, as neither one of us understood it. So I doubt we will be communicating by telephone, though as soon as I have a number and a date, we will diligently attempt it. But cables are fast and much more comprehensible at this distance. Mr. Morse has nothing to worry about from Mr. Bell.

“My telegram to the Marcello family reads:

DEAR RITA AND THE MARCELLO FAMIGLIA. AS MY LIFE WAS ENDANGERED, SIGERSON HAD BEEN MY MOST NECESSARY ALIAS. IN TRUTH I AM SHERLOCK HOLMES. IT WAS SPLENDID TO MEET YOU. RACHEL REQUESTS THAT SHE REMAIN IN LONDON, AND SHE IS WELCOME. SOMETHING WE MIGHT DISCUSS? MY TELEPHONE IS AT THE NORTHUMBERLAND HOTEL. PLEASE CABLE YOUR PARTICULARS. SHE SENDS HER LOVE. THANK YOU. S. H.

“Shortly, my New York friends will know of my alias. I look forward to their replies.” He laughed. “Did I mention we met Samuel Morse and a young magician, Harry Houdini? Morse uncovered my identity immediately. Judge Danforth, I will cable about the murderer. A telegram from you would also be helpful, my dear friend.

“Houdini is at Vacca’s Pavilion, on Coney Island. I sent him a letter.

Dear Houdini,

You and I share a fire for the truth. You are a fine natural scientist and I do recognize your methods and mine are similar. If you ever question your scientific mind, remember this and know how happy I was to be able to work with such an ingenuous, intelligent, and wildly resourceful man as you, my friend.

Sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes, aka Keevan Sigerson.

PS: May I share your unique ligature with Doctor Watson?

“What is this ligature, Holmes?”

“He engineered unbreakable knots. They’re as good as handcuffs, yet only string in your pocket. But you must not write it down nor share this knowledge with your readers, Doctor. As Houdini phrased it—‘Under pain of death!’” he chuckled.

“I will also cable Mrs. Stanton and Vassar’s President Taylor. My students will howl, ‘Of course! I knew it all along!’

“Watson, when Harry Houdini tours London, you will rendezvous with one of the most intriguing men I have ever met.” He laughed. “And he will be ecstatic to meet you, my famous biographer! But he would wear your hand out autographing all your books and magazine articles. He treats them like sacred texts.” His laughter became guffaws.

Mrs. Hudson took Rachel up to her new bedroom.

“Mrs. Hudson, thank your brother for his skill. You are as attentive as ever.” She smiled and closed the door.

Here was a Holmes I had hardly known, he was quick to laugh, and seemed the only way I could describe it was—happy. Yet, his mention of Morse brought misgivings as to his sanity.

“Holmes, Samuel Morse died over twenty years ago. You’re not making sense.”

“Ah, you caught that, Doctor? Think I have a weakening mind? On the contrary, he is alive and living at Vassar College. He fabricated his death, too. Gave me a new view on technological wonders and taught Miss Rachel how to use a telescope. He has created a very fine after-life, being cared for by his gifted young women apprentices. I also shared six weeks of my life with the young women at Vassar as Professor Sigerson.”

He showed me his robes, fine indeed.

“It is a stellar academy and my time there idyllic. I would be delighted to return. Please do not give Morse away, Doctor.”

“Holmes, have you considered what you are doing? Are you seriously sharing your flat with Miss Rachel? You are not her father, posing aboard ship doesn’t make you one. It isn’t proper. This is a girl; she will need schooling, clothing, shoes, and have you thought how this will affect our bachelor life? She’s twelve? Are you prepared to live with a budding young adolescent woman? It is a very precocious time in a girl’s life and you know nothing of this. You’ve got to think of these things.”

“Watson, I’m not sharing a flat, I’m sharing a life! Of course, I have thought of these things. I don’t care about propriety and all that foolishness, takes up too much time and brain space. Should she sleep on the couch and have no privacy at all?” He sat me in the settee, and joined me, “My dear fellow, I don’t have an answer for you or me. But there is something in Miss Rachel’s life, a mystery that needs working out. Once I have unravelled that, the answers to her future will most likely present themselves. And if need be, your questions may be answered with two words—boarding school. She is highly intelligent, Watson. We are close in that, and she has jumped four grades already, so that she might start at Oxford at thirteen.” He mused, “I may have finished, if I had begun that young.”

I said, “Holmes, you haven’t been away that long, surely you know our esteemed universities are for men only.”

“No longer, Doctor, Oxford has four colleges for women, Margaret, Somerville, St. Hugh’s Halls, and the new St. Hilda’s,” said Holmes. “Though to earn a true degree she may have to finish at Vassar which her family would enjoy. Or she’ll take the bachelor’s and master’s level degree examinations now offered to women at your University of London. The world is changing, Watson.

“I have thought this out in my usual way, dear friend. I observed her intelligence, watched a scientist emerge, as well as her courage, became the butt of her conclusions, we are alike in this. I observed that surrounded by stellar women and gifted men in her large family, she chose the company of her uncles over her intelligent and beautiful aunts. Nonetheless she has good relationships with her aunts, especially Rita, a singular woman of worth. She will thrive here.

“Watson, the past three years without you by my side—” Holmes absentmindedly pushed his hair away from his eyes. “Old man, you remain my most essential friend and colleague, without you, I am as lost as you showed me to be at the Reichenbach.” He stood and put his hand on my shoulder. “I cannot begin to fathom the pain of your own life with the loss of Mary, and my disappearance. However did you survive it?”

I said, “The way everyone does, grieve through the pain and loss, Holmes.” I moved away from him and paced our sitting room. “It takes time. Especially the anger that one you loved is taken so soon. The remorse of all that wasn’t said and wasn’t done can be devastating. But at such times we are shaken awake. Every moment, every breath, and every step is filled with the acute awareness that we are alive. We can almost see the other side and be more open to its inspiration.”

“Well said, Watson. You think that inspiration is otherworldly? To me it is the breath of every instant.” He said offhandedly as he reached for a cigarette.

I looked at him anew, with an understanding I never had before and with awe for the magnitude of such a mind. In a flash I understood the cocaine, his moods, and his genius.

With a wry smile, I said, “But grief is a phoenix, Holmes. First we burn with the searing pain of loss, until we are reduced to grey ash. And then, surprisingly, there comes a time when life reasserts itself and new wings are born out of it. We are given a choice, to soar or to dive.”

My pacing brought me to my desk. “I began to write from my notes on the cases we shared and found the more I wrote, the more my abilities expanded and my imagination grew.” I picked one from the shelf. “It felt as if you were there with me in the words. I was compelled to write and did publish many of our cases while you were gone. I’m sorry, Holmes, I have made you even more famous.”

“Bravo, Watson, so many are drowned by such tempests, the true artist in you employed it as a way to tell our story. Writing my journal led me to an appreciation of it. Yet because of your illustrious narratives if I had let down my alias I would have been swamped. Watson in America your stories are known and celebrated by the whole populace.”

I waved him away and picked up my old briar pipe. “Did news of the parody, ‘Under the Clock,’ by Brookfield and Hicks, reach you?”

In a sudden fit of hilarity he said, “I learned about it aboard ship while Madam Moriarty exacted her revenge.” His eyes lit up with a childish glee. “Watson, did you attend the farce?”

“Holmes, after my initial outrage, I went disguised in the anonymity of opera costume and full beard. It was thankfully wide of the mark, a humorous farce that actually helped me to laugh at myself. Something I sorely needed at the time and the thought of how your laughter would fill the theatre. But it also increased my desire to set the record straight.

“I was finding it very difficult to live and write in the house Mary and I built, and I gratefully gave it up for my surgery apartment. To supplement my lack of patients, I occasionally worked with Scotland Yard, even though your memories were everywhere. But somehow the memories that surfaced at the Yard, though painful, too, spurred my writing, and were even funny at times.” I clapped my partner on the back. “And I might have deduced from that, my dear Holmes, I would be seeing you again.”

He said, “Do you need help unpacking, my friend? Afterwards, I highly recommend you catch up on your reading.” Holmes helped me move the rest of my boxes into my bedroom.

“Do you recall the case of the red-headed gentleman and his artificial kneecaps?” he said.

“And the dangerous man on the Tor in that ghastly Grimpen Mire?” I said. Our boisterous laughter swept through all three floors of our Baker Street abode as we replayed old memories and worked together to bring us both home to No. 221B.

Holmes stretched out on my bed as I unpacked and opened up to me. “Oh, I missed you, Watson. I know you horribly mourned my death.” He patted my arm. “But I wasn’t dead. After my travels for Mycroft, I spent my last year alone besting Moriarty’s assassins. I’m ashamed to say I became like them in order to survive. No finesse, no pretty problems to solve, and no you, my dear Watson. All of it a horror! Stupidest idea I ever had!

“But it was only supposed to be six months. Why it continued beyond that time I have no answer for you. Against all reason I had the strong impression that some outside agency was compelling me, exiling me from London. Possibly a cocaine-induced hallucination but alone in the wilds it seemed as if some cruel and powerful hand had command of me. As if from his watery grave Moriarty was pulling the strings.”

“Those hallucinations, Holmes, were they frequent?”

“Doctor, I will require your competent medical assistance with the removal of this drug from my life.”

“How often and how much, Holmes?”

“I was free in Tibet and during travels, but every day during that final year in the wilds, and two days in New York.”

“So you have some idea of what to expect from your New York abstinence.”

“Doctor, every narcotic user knows what to expect. I had no choice. Even concocting my own dilutions in the Vassar Lab, the American version caused hallucinations.”

“That may have been the result of your intake. This will cause uncomfortable symptoms.”

“Come now, Watson, my new clients will take care of it and I am sure you have the means to get me through it, Doctor. Strangely enough, the morphia that was forced on me at Hudson Asylum worked well, though a much lower dose would probably be best.” He smiled and patted my back. Then he put his hand on my shoulder, “Did you read a while back, about the Paris Opera murder?”

I nodded.

“It was my blood on the white marbled Grand Staircase. My life depended on quickly finding medics and transportation away from the Continent. So you may imagine my surprise after my escape to New York, when I found Rachel and the Marcello family. I think they helped me more than I did them. Their talent, their friendship, and their joie de vivre facilitated my becoming human again. I left behind the gruesome grip of evil I had lived under for that year. The cold-blooded killer I had become melted away in the safety of their abundant famiglia. And they didn’t even know who I was. I had thought a handful of Moriarty’s henchmen were left, but I faced thirty more… Fredrick E. Baines, Jack Newnham, Simon Worth, Mortimer Konner, Wilfred Davis, Joseph Harrison—”

“Holmes, stop this at once!”

“I bested each one, but each time I killed, my life was on the line, Watson. I imagine it’s my closest to what you faced in Afghanistan.”

“I doubt that!” I said disgustedly. He looked at me surprised. “Only what the advance men or Mycroft’s boys faced! I was surrounded by fighting men who had my back. If I weren’t, I would be in some mass grave in another land. Holmes, I had no idea you faced so many. If I had been there with you! But you must purge their names from your memory. They were hired killers, not soldiers. Promptly release yourself from it! Their names are dangerous to your mind and well-being.”

“I can write them out with the details of their demise and give them to the appropriate authorities, I suppose.”

My doctor senses roused. “You will not! Justice has already been served through your hand, Holmes. It’s over. Assassins deserve hard justice. You and I and your profession deserve a complete Sherlock Holmes. Not a mind cramped with the memories of the evil men, whom you of necessity killed. I’ve seen men lose their focus, their senses, and their humanity. They live tortured lives lost in the battles they once fought. They squander their loved ones and usually wind up besotted with drink or the poppy. Let go of it now, Holmes!”

We walked downstairs to the sitting room. “Thank you, Watson. I knew you would want to be with me and that thought got me through it.” He shook his head slowly. “But I’m afraid the way of the assassin is a lonely one. I am glad it is past! Though three years is formidable, it seems like ten! I will attempt to make room in my brain attic. Yet here we are again in our Baker Street rooms ready for the next little problem to walk up those seventeen stairs.” He pointed to them. “That is my therapy.” At our fireplace, he took a cigarette and I threw him the matchbox, he drew in the smoke and smiled at me.

“Though we may have to wait for some mention of my return in the press for that to happen?”

Miss Rachel burst into the sitting room. “Oh, this is perfect. Mrs. Hudson has such helpful ideas. Come and see it!”

She had re-decorated a servant’s room down the corridor from mine. Floral curtains, a window sized mirror, secretary desk and chair, book cases, an armoire, a bedside table and lamp with a photograph of Miss Rachel and a young boy. All surrounded by pale yellow pineapple patterned wallpaper, miraculous in the time taken. Overnight, Mrs. Hudson and her brother, Conall, had created a young lady’s bedroom.

“Mrs. Hudson, how may I thank you for Rachel’s new room?” said Holmes.

“Actually, it is something I have for many years hoped for. To add a child’s room,” she said. “There is nothing like children to bring life to a house. Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

I hid my smile behind my hand. Holmes actually blushed. “Miss Rachel, what do you think?” I said.

“It’s perfect.” She showed off her new keys.

“Well, that settles it. Welcome to Baker Street, Miss Rachel.”

She hugged me, it isn’t done but I was becoming used to the ways of children, or at least this one.

“Mrs. Hudson you’re next. Thank you, when not on a case I will be able to help you any way I may.” We looked up at Holmes who was quietly chuckling.

Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Excuse me, Miss Rachel since you’re not on a case yet, will you be able to help me, please? Dinner will be in fifteen minutes.”

She skipped downstairs, chatting away with our landlady.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” I said.

“Thank God, I’m starving!”

“Well, I’m certainly glad to hear it.”

“Have you seen today’s Daily Telegraph, Holmes?”

“Perhaps you will enlighten me, Doctor?” He took down his churchwarden pipe and packed it with my Arcadia mixture lit it and his smoke rings began.

“Listen to these headlines: ‘St. Bart’s Ghastly Footprints!’ and ‘Church Cursed!”

“Read the former, Watson.”

The Priory Church of St. Bartholomew’s the Greater is presently under construction at the commencement of this horror. The overall plan is to remove or rebuild unsafe architecture and to reveal its original medieval structure. Sunday afternoon, the 19th Church Rector, Sir Borradaile Savory, led what was meant to be a quiet commemoration of these plans. Beyond the designs of mortal man, the situation soon erupted into an unprecedented and evil abomination. He intended to unveil newly completed aspects of the Lady Chapel built in the 12th century, refitted for secular use in the 14th. At one time it was a blacksmith’s, a dwelling-house, and a lace and fringe maker’s factory. It housed a printing business where the American, Benjamin Franklin apprenticed. 350 years of secular ravages had left the Chapel in a pitiable condition and liable to collapse at any moment. But, what occurred yesterday was beyond imagining.

What ghastly horror has been unearthed? As the visitors entered the Lady Chapel a series of bloody footprints passed through the sanctuary! A little girl, who had entered first, slipped in the blood and fell. Her older sister screamed, “It was horrible! My sister was covered in blood! My mother fainted!”

Fr. O’Reilly of St. Steven’s said, “It’s a sign. The chapel must be returned to us!”

This is just the thing the Anatomy Act was meant to stop. Is the London public once again being threatened by unscrupulous body snatchers? Or has something altogether unholy awakened from beyond the grave?

I laughingly added. “A perfect denouement, Holmes:—”

Scotland Yard has no statement at this time except to say: They are looking into it and will solve the mystery forthwith.

“Yes and forthwith means, as soon as we unravel it for them.” He joined in with my laughter.

“There’s a photograph, Holmes.”

He took the paper from me and scanned the articles. “Watson, you think this is a case? Surely it is nothing but a practical joke from some young sinner.” The paper fell to the floor. “And I am already engaged.”

Miss Rachel climbed back up the stairs dragging an enormous mail bag. “Mrs. Hudson asked me to give this to you. It’s the mail for the past three years. It’s filled with letters.”

I ran down the stairs and relieved her of the heavy Royal Mail bag. “Thank you, my dear.”

I stood it next to my desk, convenient to the fireplace as Holmes opened it.

“This is gratifying!”

I picked out a few and put them on my desk.

Holmes opened one, handed it to me, I read, “Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my dog, Raffles, is lost, please help me find him! Jack.”

“Tsk, tsk, Mrs. Hudson, people wrote even after Watson’s story about my death?”

She had entered with dinner, and with Rachel’s help was laying out the table. “Yes, Mr. Holmes. And there’s another bag of telegrams. When your death was announced by Doctor Watson, it was in every paper, too. All of London was filled with men and women wearing mourning crepe for you. It was beautiful.” she sniffed.

Holmes patted me on the back. “Intriguing, Doctor, authors don’t usually receive such applause. I should imagine we’ll have time for those letters. We are the only ones who know I’m alive, other than Colonel Moran, and he’s suitably detained.”

Miss Rachel said. “The Broomes, also know, sir.” We sat down to Mrs. Hudson’s fowl with fresh early greens from her garden. Rachel invited her to join them.

She looked to Holmes.

“By all means Rachel comes from a large family, each meal is a banquet. Let us dispense with another useless social regimentation. I have missed you, Mrs. Hudson. Please join our table now and whenever you would like. Your assistance during the ‘Empty House’ ruse was excellent. Have I not said I am much obliged to you?” He stood and added a chair, held it out for her. “Now, Rachel if you would elaborate?”

“When I travelled with the Broomes from Liverpool to Harrow, all they talked about was how they were going to announce your return to the world: How they would word it, the headlines, and which drawings to use. They were very excited about it. I reminded them to wait for the arrest of the Colonel.”

“Ho, Ho, once again massaging the press for your purposes?”

Holmes said, “Mrs. Broome was a shipmate of ours.”

Mrs. Hudson said, “Judy Magazine? Everyone reads it. This will create a swarm of people at our door. Impossible to get anything done and your clients won’t be able to get through, nor will we be able to get out. Something similar happened following Doctor Watson’s announcement of your ‘demise.’”

Miss Rachel said, “Sir, why not hold a public event and even give a speech? If your topic is unfashionable they may just all go away. It could be a charity event, where the entrance fee goes to a charity you pick.”

“An ingenious idea, what do you think Watson, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Again I am in the dark. But it seems to me it could go either way and we wind up with more caring people blocking our door.”

“The charity I would substantiate is the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies. I’ll introduce one of their speakers.”

“Mrs. Stanton was kind enough to recommend her London friends. Let’s propose it.”

“Capital, Rachel.” He raised his glass to her.

Mrs. Hudson said, “Was Elizabeth Cady Stanton also traveling on the steamship?”

“She’s my friend and my heroine,” said Miss Rachel. “Mr. Holmes met with both she and Miss Anthony in New York, and together we crafted a majestic plan!”

“A hard-won friend. I would regret never jousting with her pertinacious wit again.”

“Holmes, I hardly believe my ears.” I laughed, “Suffragists!”

“One must avail oneself of the circumstances one is presented with, Watson, and choose the most advantageous course of action. Allies are most necessary, especially when under alias in a foreign land. These knowledgeable New Yorkers devoted their lives to the not inconsequential feat of justly righting the course of history.”

“Holmes, this event might achieve what Miss Rachel is proposing. But if you proclaim your suffragist leanings to the world, our practice would lose business from gentlemen,” I said.

“Oh, Watson, and increase our business from ladies! Which I know you would enjoy. I am the last resort. Desperate men will still knock at our door.” He stood, reached for a cigarette, and threw the match to the fire with a wave of his hand making it clear the discussion was closed.

“This practice ought to avail itself of the latest in telephonic technology. Trans-Atlantic service will doubtlessly improve. The telegram saved lives and with instant communication we could conceivably stop a murder before it’s enacted. Watson, it may have in the cases you entitled the ‘Dancing Men’ or possibly the ‘Greek Interpreter.”

I knew, of course, how the disastrous results of those cases had affected him, and how a matter of hours could have saved our client and Mr. Kratides. “Having it in our sitting room might be a problem, especially if it rings when we are in the middle of an interview.”

Rachel said, “I vote, yes!”

“I suppose if the telephone were downstairs in the hallway that would be all right,” said Mrs. Hudson.

Holmes collected a business card from the mantel and presented it to her. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, please make the arrangements at your convenience. And connect us with Scotland Yard, Mycroft, the Préfecture de Police in Paris, the National Telephone Company, Central Telegraph Office and the Central telephone exchange and as many outer London exchanges, such as Birmingham, as you may. But, let us clean up, it is Rachel’s bedtime.”

He released his Stradivarius from its case and rosined the bow.

“I’m going to change, sir, I’ll meet you in my room, just knock,” said Miss Rachel with some pride. “Good night Doctor Watson. Mrs. Hudson, thank you, again.” She ran upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson said, “Doctor Watson, I’d like to read Mr. Holmes’ journal, if that is agreeable with both of you. Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Fawcett’s NUWSS supports peaceful and non-violent means. Yet, there is a smaller if more vocal group of London suffragists who are less patient and also less legal. I agree with their ends of course, a woman would have to be incredibly imbecilic not to, but I don’t condone militant means.”

We had been astonished by Mrs. Hudson’s statement yet we had learned long ago that a fine intelligence and a wisdom beyond her years lived behind those clear eyes. And after looking to me with a swift smile, he said, “What do you say, Watson?”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Hudson.”

After five minutes, Miss Rachel called and Sherlock Holmes knocked on her door.

“Come in!”

He entered, and closed the door after him.

“Papa, who is Mr. Mycroft? You and Doctor Watson mentioned him several times today.”

“My older brother, usually found at the Diogenes Club in Pall Mall. You will meet him. Welcome home, my brilliant wanderer.”

“I love you, Papa,” she said.

I could hear Holmes tuning his violin. He played a sweet and tranquil lullaby. A pastoral to the city he loved, serenely acknowledging her streets, her river, and our usually wet weather. He was harmonizing with the gentle rain as it bathed hansoms, Parliament, palace, and Baker Street alike.

Mrs. Hudson and I had been listening, I said, “Mrs. Hudson, I don’t know where this will lead, but it seems to be just what Holmes needs. I do worry whether it is what Miss Rachel needs.”

“Doctor, it sounds to me,” she gestured upstairs, “as if they are both giving something they have needed for a long time. Don’t worry. Miss Rachel is fitting in well and is very good at it. Unless, of course she is summoned back to the States, and that, Doctor, is when we will need to worry. Good night, Doctor Watson.” She walked to the hallway, turned at the door, and smiled at me.

“Goodnight, wise Mrs. Hudson.” She waved me off as she climbed down the steps.

Holmes came into the sitting room, replaced his violin in its case, and smiled, “Well, Watson, I’m completely besotted with the child. Shall we read our fan mail?”

“Holmes, I am happy for you; she is a wonderful girl. I am enjoying watching someone who is probably very much as you were. And the change this has wrought in you in little over two months’ time is entirely beneficial. Mrs. Hudson agrees.”

“Oh, I see, my two friends have analysed us while we dreamed.”

As I opened my mouth in surprise, Holmes gestured to me. “I know it is only as my most caring friend, Watson. Rachel is happy, she knew us well before she met us, from your singular stories. And I am exceedingly grateful for every moment of her presence in my life.” Holmes chose a pipe, settled in his chair, “Watson, love must travel in a different time from ours as it can transform in an instant.”

I thought about that wondrous transformation and how I had never thought to see Holmes so transformed.

The fire had been stoked by Mrs. Hudson, it crackled and flashed. We old friends sat in basket chairs on either side. Sherlock Holmes cross-legged; I fluffed my cushions and lit a cigar. Holmes filled his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper. I poured two snifters of warming brandy and handed one to him. He lit a long taper for his pipe.

“Watson, when I met Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony, I was struck by the similarities.” Smoke rose in blue ribbons from his pipe. “They are two friends who take on the world with genius and courage.”

He lifted his glass to me, fixed me with a look half humorous and half dare, I hoisted my glass to him.

“The toast is the future adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.”